The Ever Apparent Frustrations of John Watson
by Spannermagnet
Summary: How long can Watson put up with Holmes' shenanigans? Eventual slash, hoping to stretch this out to several chapters.
1. Chapter 1

This is my first fic ever, so reviews are very much appreciated. Should I continue with this story? Please let me know.

* * *

"Watson. Watson. Watson. Watson!"

Watson ignored the constant bark of his name from the other side of the room that had woken him so abruptly, and continued to try to ignore Holmes and go back to sleep.

"Watson! Watson! Watson, look! Wake up!"

Holmes was upon him them, shaking the doctor's shoulders roughly and causing Watson to flail about like some kind of moustached rag doll. He made a frustrated noise and gave up, cursing himself for doing so, and opened his eyes.  
Holmes looked positively gleeful. He grinned widely, stepping back from the sofa where Watson lay awkwardly and flung his left arm out to the side, indicating to something on a nearby table.

"Look what i have created." he spoke proudly, chest out, chin up.  
Watson peered blearily over to the table, sitting himself up in the process. What he saw perplexed him greatly. He didn't quite know how to react.  
The object was shapeless, and it looked to be made of old boxing tickets and lollipop sticks glued together near a jam jar that appeared to have a rather large house spider in it. Watson tried to look impressed but Holmes noticed immediately the beyond confused look on his partner's face.

"You don't know what it is, do you?" he said quietly, proud arm falling back to his side.  
"Oh, Holmes! Of course i know what it is." insisted Watson, completely uselessly.  
"Tell me."  
"It's..."  
"Go on." Sherlock folded his arms and raised his eyebrows directly at him.

Watson knew had to be careful. Holmes had been increasingly irate of late due to lack of cases, and was irritable and angry on most occasions. The way he grinned at the creation of this object had been the first time Watson had seen him smile in some time. It was a shame that Watson already had appeared to ruin his good mood. Why couldn't he have just acted amazed by it, admitted that he didn't know what it was and let Holmes talk him through it? Why did he have to lie and say he knew what it was? For the second time since he woke up, Watson cursed himself.

"It's...Oh, for God's sake Holmes, I have no idea." The words came out of him in a breath and he closed his eyes hard, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
When he opened his eyes, Holmes was glaring at him. Watson knew that glare well and it infuriated him. "Oh, stop it, old boy. You seriously expect me to know what that is?" he flapped his arm in the direction of the table, "It's ridiculous!"

Holmes frowned, nodded curtly, grabbed the nearest newspaper and sat himself down on his armchair pointedly; all without ever breaking eyecontact with the doctor. He then sighed, and immersed himself sulkily in reading.  
Watson stood there, dumbfounded.  
"Holmes." he said. Not even a flicker of recognition. "Holmes. Holmes. Holmes." Watson shook his head and looked towards the ceiling frustratedly, "Holmes,  
come on. There's no need to be like that. Look," he gave a sigh and stepped towards his seated partner who still refused to look at him, forcing words from matter-of-factly from his mouth as if they were rehearsed, "If you could explain to me what it is, I am sure I would share in your happiness, which i would like very much."

Watson looked down at Holmes with a comforting smile, waiting for his eyes to meet his. He could see him falter in his thoughts, and the doctor reached out and lightly folded the newspaper away from his friend's hands. Holmes looked at him then and narrowed his eyes mock-spitefully. Watson was glad that it was simply mock spite.

Holmes stood up, pushed Watson a few steps back from the chair and stood beside the table. He coughed theatrically. Watson was eager for Sherlock to finish his ego polishing for the day.

"This...Is my Spider's Nest," He concluded with gravitas, as if it was the most impressive thing he could have uttered. Watson stared at him blankly. Holmes continued, grinning excitedly and pointing things out on his bizarre creation, "I'm going to grow a nest of spiders from this female giant house spider I found under your hat this morning," Watson looked sick at the idea, "She's pregnant, she will lay eggs in the jar, they will hatch, climb out of the little holes i have stabbed into the lid and crawl their arachnid way onto the pile of sticky ticketstubs I have pasted and doused with various fragrances and pheramones and things I found in your medicine bag and remain there. We will have a positive infestation on our hands!" Holmes positively beamed at the prospect.

Watson blinked. He couldn't comprehend how this could possibly be considered good news. He looked at Holmes, who's tell-tale face boasted the sweat of intoxication and the unkempt hair of a buffoon, his clothes rumpled and buttoned incorrectly, he looked at this man, and gave a hefty, disbelieving shrug.  
Sherlock frowned again.  
"Holmes, there is no doubt that what you have done is...," He chose his words carefully, "... genius, but don't you think it would be suited more to a zoo than OUR FRONT ROOM?" he asked incredulously, throwing his hands in the air.

"You have no respect for me or my creations, Watson, and this saddens me."  
"Oh for God's sake," Watson hissed, "I respect you wholeheartedly, you know i do, I just would not necessarily appreciate our rooms becoming infested with spiders!"  
"If you created something I would encourage you and congratulate you."  
"I'm sure you would, if it was something worthwhile, not something encouraging the population growth of insects-"  
"-Arachnids-"  
"-Arachnids, thank you." Watson caught himself, "- Not something that encourages the population growth of arachnids within our home!"

Holmes narrowed his eyes at Watson seriously this time.  
"You lack vision, Watson."  
"I wish i did!" the doctor laughed, shaking his head, "Then i wouldn't be able to see that bloody thing."

Watson saw the change in him immediately. Holmes inhaled quickly through his nose, drew himself up, straightened the lapels on his jacket and marched directly past Watson towards the door. Watson wheeled round.

"Where are you going?"  
"Out."

Watson nearly fell over.

"You're going out? Why? Do we have a case?"  
"No. I'm just going out." Holmes pulled his coat on and reached for the doorhandle.  
"Oh, you're not sulking, are you?"  
"You're sulking!" Holmes yelped as he slammed the door behind him. "Oh, do get out of the way, Nanny!" Watson heard a muffled cry as Sherlock stomped down the stairs. The doctor shook his head. He was going to have to deal with him later.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to everyone who reviewed and favourited! And i have sorted out the formatting of the dialogue this time round. Don't know why i messed it up the first time. You're all very encouraging, thankyou. Thought i'd alternate points of view for each chapter, so this one's Holmes.

~

Holmes trudged. He stomped and he traipsed. He plodded and tramped. He was humiliated. Why, he had spent HOURS of his precious time concocting that amazing contraption and all Watson could do was be negative and make those infuriating faces! The detective pulled his coat further up his neck as it was rather chilly, only serving to make his mood worse. As he stormed about that particularly muddy and bustling London evening, he found the town to be far too overwhelming for him to take in his current "delicate state", as Watson would have put it. Everything was annoying him. Why did everyone have to act so...loudly? Even the people standing in silence, it was like they were screaming at him with their obviousness.  
That weatherbeaten bloke on the corner over there, leaning against the lamppost. He had a was clutching at his right arm where one would assume he sustained an injury the night before in a fight, trying to earn his wife and family some money, no doubt, as Holmes noticed the ring on the man's finger. The baker brought a fresh new batch of loaves from the oven out into the street, still unaware after all these years that his wife was involved in a sordid affair with the blacksmith just across the way. The fresh, warm smell hit Holmes like a comforting wave and for a moment he considered, not for the first time, telling the poor man about his wife's doings, but instead he simply marched right past, attempting to ignore everyone and each little story they were just begging to share with him by simply existing. He attempted to think of only Watson and how very cross he made him.

It was very late that night when Holmes returned to 221B, and he was verbally accosted immediately by the good doctor as soon as he set muddy boot into his main room.

"Where have you been?" Watson asked from Holmes' armchair, frowning with the disdain Holmes knew so well.

"I have been walking in trepidation and filth for a great deal of time." Holmes announced grandly, stumbling as he hung up his coat and attempted to shut the door a bit too thoroughly.

"You're drunk." Watson sighed and stood up. Holmes was trying to push the door further shut with his shoulder even though it was completely closed.

"Ah, only slightly, Watson. Only slightly. Only slightly."

"Stop saying 'only slightly' and sort yourself out, for God's sake."

"I will do nothing for God's sake! Only my own."

"Well, then. For your sake, go to bed."

Holmes rounded on Watson and fixed him with as icy a glare as he could given his unsteady vision. How dare Watson speak to him like that, the limping imbecile!

"You may not order me about, doctor. I am a grown man, I will go to bed as an when I choose and I do not choose to!" He attempted to walk threateningly towards Watson but somehow ended up on the floor after half a step.

"Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"I appear to have fallen somewhat."

"That you have."

"I may require your assistance."

Watson's arms hooked underneath Holmes' elbows and he hauled him to his feet, facing him directly. Holmes managed to remain standing as Watson felt his forehead. Holmes for some reason felt quite content just to stand near Watson like this but the doctor removed his hand almost as soon as he'd placed it,  
and backed off,shaking his head. Holmes could feel the soothing ghost of his hand on his forehead.

"You're getting a temperature, Holmes. You need to sleep it off. To bed with you, now." Watson ordered and pointed towards Holmes' bedroom door.

Watson reminded Holmes so much of an angry mother that he couldn't help but laugh in his face. It was a high pitched, ridiculous laugh and it appeared to throw Watson quite drastically.

"Stop laughing!"

"I'm sorry, my dear boy, but -" He broke again into fits of giggles, practically doubling up and pointing at the indignation on his friend's face.

Watson fumed silently and grabbed Sherlock by the collar, pulling him towards the bedroom door as his laughter began to subside into choking. Holmes could feel the blood rushing to his head as Watson threw him through his bedroom door and onto the bed, where Holmes bounced once, twice, three times,  
bewildered.

"Watson, that was really unnecessary."

"Sleep." Watson said, quietly this time. He was leaning against the doorframe, face in his hands. It was evident that Holmes had worn him out for the day.  
Holmes blinked at him, felt a tiny shred of pity for him, and shrugged. He had to admit to himself that he admired the way in which Watson was so efficient.

"Fine." Holmes said, floundering to get under the covers. "As you like it."

"Thankyou." Watson said, heaving a sigh of relief and smiling slightly at Holmes once he had settled himself on the bed. Holmes looked back at him, unfocused but smiling politely as Watson bowed slightly and left the room closing the door behind him. Holmes thought to himself that perhaps Watson wasn't so bad, and that he wouldn't mind if he did get ill, because he knew Watson would take care of him. He still felt the chill of his fingers resting on his forehead as he drifted off to sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks so much for the encouraging and constructive words, favourites and subscriptions everybody! I'm really flattered considering this is my first fic. I can't seem to stop writing it! Anyway, on with the show. Bit fluffy, this one.**

Watson occasionally found himself watching Holmes sleep off his alcoholic stupors. It was a strange sort of urge he would get once in a while, perhaps during varying moments of boredom or restlessness at night, it gave him something to do and, to be honest, he just wanted to make sure he was fine. He was a medical man after all, and he was Holmes' doctor. Holmes was not only his friend, but his responsibility. If anything happened to him, well...John Watson doubted he could cope with the guilt, seeing as how Holmes seemed to constantly need his personal and medical attention. He would make regular checks on his friend during the night, just to ensure the bastard was still breathing and hadn't drowned in his own stupid vomit, and very occasionally would stay a bit longer than necessary purely to survey Holmes in a completely different light.

When sleeping, Watson noticed, Holmes was angelic and innocent-looking, and the ironic contrast between this and the waking Holmes was not lost on the doctor. The sleeping Holmes would never have come up with some kind of horrifying spider machine. Holmes would often talk in his sleep, garbled gibberish and noises mixed in with comprehensible phrases like "Gladstone, don't eat that!" which caused Watson the utmost amusement.

A good few hours after Watson had left a drunken Holmes in his room, the doctor was sitting reading through old accounts of cases. Casting his mind back to all the dangers and adventures the pair had been involved in and remained together through made him realise just how petty Holmes was being about Watson's flippancy over his Spider's Nest. Watson looked over at it now, reached over and unscrewed the jam jar, throwing the spider out of the window and placing the jar back where it was. It was the most ridiculous invention he'd ever seen.

It was then that Watson realised he could not hear Holmes snoring in the next room. A strange wave of panic coursed through him.

Upon doing his routinely check this time, Watson slid silently into the room and stood by Holmes' bed, noticing with relief the peaceful rise and fall of Holmes' chest as he fidgeted slightly in his sleep. Watson put two fingers to the detective's neck and began to check his pulse. Had to make sure it wasn't doing something it shouldn't. Ah, it was a bit elevated, but fine. Probably the result of a rather exciting dream.

"Can't catch the seagull...Can't catch it." Holmes mumbled in his sleep, sounding disappointed.

Watson grinned and felt Holmes' forehead with the back of his hand. It was clammy and warm.

"I say, sir! Watch out for the gull. He's a slippery one." Holmes barked.

Watson frowned with concern, removing a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping gently at Holmes' brow. Holmes drove him insane. He was acting like a petulant child. How could he have taken such offense to Watson's dislike of his pointless invention that he would go out and get himself into such a state? It annoyed the doctor thoroughly that Holmes was so irresponsible, and Watson inwardly concluded that the man probably made himself ill just to spite him.

"Now that, sir, is what one would call a fish, is it not?" Holmes blathered to no one in particular.

Watson put the handkerchief back in his pocket and felt the detective's forehead again. He could guarantee that Holmes would be feeling wretched in the morning. Watson withdrew his hand and brushed a strand of straying black hair slowly and carefully away from Holmes' face, accidentally brushing his eyebrow with his thumb. Holmes seemed to stir slightly and his serene sleeping expression became a kind of perplexed frown.

"Watson bought me those." He said nonsensically.

Watson smiled, stroked another strand of wild hair away and made his way back towards the door.

"Watson is nice." Holmes mumbled.

The doctor had a sudden idea. He'd never tried talking back before. Perhaps a sleeping Sherlock would be more tolerable than the insufferable cretin Holmes increasingly continued to be while awake.

"Is he?" Watson turned around and asked in a purely conversational, gentle tone.

"Yes. For my birthday this year he got me a book. It was leather-bound. I like leather-bound books."

Watson logged away this useless bit of information with a perplexed shake of his head and the intention to dig deeper. He sat on the edge of Holmes' bed, looking at him directly. He didn't really know what he was looking for, just some gratitude, some acknowledgement, he supposed.

"What else does Watson do for you?" he asked.

"Watson is a doctor. He doctors people. Makes their pains go away."

"What does he do for _you_?"

Holmes appeared to frown, unsure. There was a silence, a fidget, and he seemed to settle further into his pillow. Watson assumed he wasn't going to reply and heaved himself to his feet. Then Holmes said:

"Watson makes _my_ pains go away."

Watson smiled thoughtfully to himself, feeling a bizarre and warm swell of pride rising in his chest and he sighed, shaking his head at the floor.

"Holmes, you are..."

Holmes let out a loud snore, interrupting, but Watson decided he had nothing adequate to finish the sentence with anyway so he simply surveyed his sleeping friend again with a grin and left the room. He felt remarkably appreciated and even the sight of the house spider climbing its way back onto the windowsill could not remove his smile.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry for the wait, everyone. Thanks so much for the reviews, subscriptions, favourites and suggestions. It's been overwhelming. Here's your next chapter.**

___

"I'll have you know that is valuable property!" Holmes shouted upon waking, sitting up in bed, alert. His hair was sticking up ridiculously to one side.

"What?"

Watson was in Holmes' bedroom, grinning at his friend's outburst, holding two china cups. The light from the bedroom window was uncomfortably bright and Holmes blinked hard, throwing the covers back over himself and settling further into bed.

"Nothing."

"You and your sleep-talking." Watson shook his head and placed a cup on Holmes' bedside table.

"Dontwannit," Holmes mumbled, "Too early, too early! Why the disruption? Sleep is good, wake is not."

"Oh, come, Holmes. You need it. You must be feeling ghastly after last night."

"I feel fit as a fiddle, Watson. I have no need for special beverages."

"...It's tea."

"Oh."

Holmes reached out and took a few gulps. It wasn't bad. Watson probably made it. Mrs Hudson's teas were usually sub par, a fact which Holmes had no problem bestowing regularly on the landlady.

Watson surveyed him for a moment, and sighed.

"I'm sorry about yesterday. I didn't mean to be so disrespectful about your invention. It's just...things have been a bit hectic recently and I thought, well, I _hoped_ that you would put your mind to more imminent occurrences, rather than satisfying your need for creation. But either way, you shouldn't have used it as an excuse to go out and get yourself into such a state."

Watson perched himself on the end of Holmes' bed, the inhabitant of which was now peering at him curiously. Holmes could read the doctor like a book. A book with a nice moustache.

"My, my, Doctor," he smiled, "You were worried about me."

"Of course I was worried about you! You stormed off, were gone for half the night, and came back a wreck! I had to keep checking you hadn't bloody died in your sleep."

"I have been far worse, Watson. You know that."

"All too well, yes." Watson rubbed his brow impatiently, "And each time it is me who has to pick up the pieces and ensure that you don't die."

"Something for which I am hugely grateful for, old boy," Holmes leaned forward and patted Watson on the back heartily, "Now, what did you mean when you said more 'imminent occurrences'?"

Watson looked at him disbelievingly. Holmes felt surprisingly scrutinised whenever he was on the receiving end of that look. He waited for the sarcasm to come, and it did.

"Well, how about the fact that we don't have this month's rent? Perhaps we should choose a case to rectify this? Perhaps earn some of that...what do they call it...money? Or would you much rather create something else of no apparent explanation, perhaps to do with grasshoppers this time?"

"Watson. There is no need to be rude," Holmes squinted at him, "_Rude_." He repeated, scathingly.

Watson rolled his eyes. Holmes smiled inwardly. If there was one thing he liked doing most in the world, it was winding up his friend.

"I like you more when you're asleep." Watson said, standing up. "Drink your tea before it goes cold, and don't leave it anywhere. I hate finding that cold milky tea with the bizarre skin on the top when you've left it knocking about too long."

A strange wave of familiarity suddenly flowed through Holmes, who frowned to himself.

"Were you in my room last night?"

Watson jarred for a moment before replying.

"Err, yes. On occasion. To check on you." He coughed.

"Oh."

"Why?"

"Nothing, I just had this vague memory of knowing that you were here in my sleep. It's comforting, actually," he smiled up at Watson who looked decidedly amused, a small smirk playing on his lips.

"Drink your tea," he said, and left the room.

_I like you more when you're asleep._

Holmes sat there on the bed, looking at the closed door, head tilted, musing silently to himself. Holmes was aware that he was quite the chatty sleep-talker. There is no telling what embarrassing and potentially incriminating things he may have said while Watson was in the room last night...But it was guaranteed he'd know what embarrassing and potentially incriminating things he'd be saying in his sleep _tonight_. The detective grinned. It was time for what Holmes liked to refer to as a "social experiment", and, as usual, he would be withholding his plans from the good doctor. However, in order for this experiment to work, he would need to give it a good enough build up. He was going to have to be very, very clever. Which, of course, he was. He smugly drank the rest of his tea in one gulp, then gagged at the burning sensation in his throat.

_

"I found us a case, Watson." Holmes announced that evening, fully dressed, and seemingly cheerful, Watson thought.

"Really?" Watson had to admit he was surprised, Sherlock had hardly changed his routine in a month or so, a routine which mainly consisted of him sprawling around the rooms in his dressing gown playing his violin or concocting strange machines and/or potions, or shouting loudly about whatever was annoying him at any given moment. And yet here was Holmes in the main room, after a day of tidying and hard work, dressed adequately and being efficient, holding out an envelope to him.

Watson read it over a few times.

"All right, so a missing person's case? Are you sure? Very time consuming, Holmes."

"All crime is time consuming, my dear. A case of a missing person is a very serious one indeed, but one that we shall begin with tomorrow. We will meet with the family and work from there."

Watson nodded thoughtfully and read the letter one more time. His heart went out to the parents of the lost son. According to the letter the son had stormed out after a family argument and not returned. Watson clicked his tongue and shook his head.

"That poor family," he sighed.

"Ah, yes. But not to worry, Watson. We'll find their child soon enough. And, he's 19 years old, it's very likely that he is safe."

"I would hate to have someone just disappear like that one day. I'd imagine it would feel like an exacerbated version of what I felt when you didn't come home last night."

Holmes blinked and sat next to Watson, pushing some scattered papers and books off in the process.

"Sorry about that, old chap," he said.

"Ah, don't worry about it."

Holmes sniffed awkwardly and tried to look as inner turmoil-like as he could. It was integral to his experiment. To tell the truth, he didn't really know what he was trying to achieve, or why, all he knew was that he was very aware of how close Watson was to him and how adorably discouraged he looked. Holmes placed a hand carefully on the doctor's shoulder.

"I know I can be foolish, I'm unkempt, I'm rude, I'm rash and I'm uncouth. So I thank you for putting up with me."

Watson turned to look at him, blatantly confused, but also thankful. He nodded slowly and studied his friend's face.

"What's got into you?" he asked quietly.

Holmes shrugged, smiled amiably and gave quite an impressive faux yawn.

"I'm going to turn in, I think. Goodnight, Watson," he let his hand linger on Watson's shoulder as he walked to his bedroom and shut the door behind him.

His plan was in motion.

-

**Please keep the reviews and suggestions coming!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks, everyone! Here's chapter 5. A special mention to ZabellaCookie who left me such a great review/comment. :)**

Holmes' eyes were closed but he knew Watson had entered his room. He had focussed all of his attention on appearing asleep, and had been lying there for precisely two hours and thirteen minutes. Perhaps this was a tad excessive, but in order for his experiment to work, it was needed. Watson had taken longer than the detective had expected to sneak into his room. This showed great insecurity on the doctor's part, Holmes thought, and was a thing that needed to be explored.

He felt a weight sink into the foot of the bed. Watson had sat down. Yes, one could call Holmes' plan an act of shameless manipulation, because...well, that's what it was. Watson wouldn't know that Holmes was fully conscious of his being in the room. He gave a loud snore to add authenticity, just in case.

_

Watson watched Holmes carefully and leaned forward, checking his pulse from the wrist. You can never be too careful, is what he told himself. Watson searched his brain for the reason why he was in Holmes' room again, when he had proven to be fine medically during the day. The doctor decided that such thoughts were pointless and he was a doctor so he was blatantly just checking for any prolonged effects... yes, that had to be it. What other reason could there be? The pulse was fine, and Holmes shifted slightly in his sleep at Watson's touch.

"I wouldn't advise a rendezvous with the carp people, Marcus." Holmes mumbled incoherently.

Watson stifled a laugh. He watched his friend's sleeping face curiously, waiting for anymore sleep-talking gems to blather from his mouth. Moments passed. Nothing. Watson frowned, and poked Holmes' side firmly, trying to jolt some speech from him.

"If you insist on stabbing me upon every instance I enter here, I will be taking my business elsewhere!" Holmes bleated, shifting uncomfortably on the bed.

Watson heaved silently with laughter, deciding that was the most he would get out of Holmes for the night. He stood carefully up so as not to wake him, easing his weight slowly from the mattress.

"Don't go." Holmes whimpered.

Watson turned to him, a strange pang in his stomach. He was still asleep, but he was clutching his covers anxiously to himself, his face screwed up in a childish but saddening pout.

"Don't go..." he murmured so low the doctor could hardly hear him, but he did, and he blinked, and he sat back down again, frowning with confusion and concern at Holmes.

"Watson needs to stay and defend me... Hurpadurdoo!"

Granted the second part of that outburst was somewhat less significant and more...peculiar than anything else, but Watson chose to ignore it. He shuffled further up the bed so he was right at Holmes' side. He felt his forehead. It was fine. Watson looked down at him, puzzled. Holmes' sleeping face was so distraught that Watson felt a strange flood of pity.

"I'm here," he said, "Don't worry."

Whatever nightmare Holmes seemed to be having, Watson could guess that it was a particularly bad one. He was restless, sniffling and fidgety. Watson took hold of his hand and held it steadily. Holmes seemed to settle slightly, gave a sigh and Watson's hand a slight squeeze. The doctor felt a smile tug at his lips as he felt Holmes' forehead again, letting his hand rest there.

Watson felt extremely touched that he should have entered Holmes' unconscious at all. He was flattered that he seemed to mean a lot to Holmes, at least in sleeping. As he sat there, clasping the detective's hand in his own and lightly stroking his forehead, in a purely medical manner of course, he tried to remember a time when he'd felt more content.

"Watson will protect me...," Holmes breathed, "He's my friend and he is brave and you are unkind."

Watson moved his hand from Holmes' forehead to his cheek and rubbed gently with his thumb. Holmes was far too endearing for his own good. Watson found himself smiling absent-mindedly at Holmes in a way that was most inappropriate. He unlinked his hand from Holmes' and removed the other from his face in one swift motion. This behaviour was vastly improper.

Holmes didn't appear to care. His eyes opened blearily and he took hold of Watson's wrist, carefully. Watson was startled at the gentleness of his touch.

"Holmes-"

"Watson."

"Are you awake?"

"Evidently."

Watson gulped.

"How long have you been awake for?"

"Since I retired to bed."

Holmes was speaking in a hushed manner, and was maintaining intent eye contact with the doctor, something that was either intimidating or exciting to Watson – he didn't know which to choose.

"What?"

"I'm afraid I've been pulling your leg, old boy." Holmes said, releasing the gentle grip on his wrist. "I simply wanted to witness what you get up to in here consciously for myself."

Watson didn't know how to feel. Well, he did. But it was a bizarre mixture. He felt cheated, angry, outraged...but for some reason, right at the back of his head, there was this unbelievable relief and excitement. He didn't quite know how to convey all this so he simply exhaled in disbelief tinged with embarrassment, looking at Holmes incredulously.

Holmes propped himself up onto his elbows, watching the doctor blanch uncomfortably, smiling with immense satisfaction.

"Watson," he said, "Do you do this every night?"

"I am your doctor, Holmes," Watson eventually managed to say. "It is my duty to check on you and maintain your health. Which is what I was doing."

"I see. Of course, you wouldn't happen to have an ulterior motive?"

Watson couldn't even fathom what Holmes could have meant.

"What-? What about _you_? What's _your_ ulterior motive? Pretending to be asleep, having distressing dreams, for what? To wind me up, embarrass me? What are you playing at?" Watson spluttered.

Holmes simply shrugged. Watson fumed, practically throwing himself onto his feet.

"You have no regard for me or my profession!" he raged, pacing the room, his limp making it look like he was lolloping, "You play up symptoms and insecurity to gain attention from me, for what?"

Watson paused and glared at Holmes, who simply looked at Watson as if he were an idiot.

"Because its fun." Holmes stated.

Watson reached for the nearest object he could, which happened to be the leather-bound book he had got Holmes for his last birthday. He hurled it full pelt at the bed, Holmes had to quickly catch it before it hit his face.

"Really, Watson!" Holmes scolded.

"You're a manipulative bastard and I wish to converse with you no further." Watson spoke quietly and matter-of-factly, raising his eyebrows at Holmes, turning on his heel and slamming the door behind him.

"...Moody!" Holmes jeered feebly after him.

_

**...I'm evil, aren't I? I promise there'll be proper slash in the next chapter. They've earned it. I just love to drag things out for as long as they will go. Keep reviewing and suggesting, please! Tell me if the lack of actual slash is frustrating in a bad way, I keep thinking I'm being so mean, haa.**


End file.
